


Whumptober 2019

by Arcturis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Angel Blades (Supernatural), Angel Healing, Angel Wings, Angels, Angels are Dicks (Supernatural), Angels vs. Demons, Angry Dean Winchester, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Background Rowena MacLeod, Banter, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Castiel Has Self-Esteem Issues (Supernatural), Castiel Has Self-Worth Issues (Supernatural), Castiel Whump (Supernatural), Castiel and Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester are Jack Kline's Parents, Character Death, Dean Winchester Being Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester Whump, Dean Winchester in Hell, Demon Dean Winchester, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotionally Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Emotionally Hurt Dean Winchester, Emotionally Hurt Sam Winchester, Fallen Angels, Flashbacks, Grand Coven (Supernatural), Grim Reapers, Guardian Angels, Guilt, Gunshot Wounds, Hallucinations, Heaven, Hell, Hell Trauma, Hellhounds, Human Jack Kline, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Jack, Hurt Jack Kline, Hurt Rowena MacLeod, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Injury, Isolation, Loss, Magic, Major Character Injury, Medical Jargon, Medical Procedures, Monsters, Multi, Nightmares, Post-Demon Dean Winchester, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Dean Winchester, Re-Education, Reaper Billie (Supernatural: Form and Void), Reapers, Sam Winchester Being Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester Whump, Sam Winchester in Hell, Scared Rowena MacLeod, Sick Castiel (Supernatural), Souls, Spells & Enchantments, Stitches, Survivor Guilt, The Impala (Supernatural), Torture, Tortured Castiel (Supernatural), Tortured Dean Winchester, Tortured Sam Winchester, Whump, Whumptober, Whumptober 2019, Witches, Worried Castiel (Supernatural), Worried Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2020-12-27 20:59:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21125162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcturis/pseuds/Arcturis
Summary: Figured I'd give this a go since I've never done it before. I'm about as late as I am with Inktober. Better late than never? Tags will be added as chapters come in. It shouldn't take terribly long to get posts up.





	1. Shaking Hands

**Shaking Hands**

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

There was red. So much wet red.

For the billionth time, Jack found himself cursing his recent weakness. He was afraid and alone. He’d tried calling Cas, trembling fingers clumsily dialing the seraph’s cell number, but he hadn’t answered.

There was only supposed to be one.

Jack fought down a whimper of fear as he looked between the two Winchesters, bleeding and unconscious on the floor of the crypt. They’d been hunting a ghoul that had been desecrating the cemetery of a town not too far from the Bunker. It was supposed to be easy, a safe hunt to ease Jack into his newfound humanity. Something to teach him hands-on with the new tools and fighting techniques he’d been learning since he’d lost his Grace. Sam had shown him how to recon, how to determine what they were up against and how many. Jack had decided there was only one and Sam had nodded in agreement.

Dean had shown him what to use, what tools worked best with this kind of monster. Tips on trapping, taking by surprise and a ghoul’s particular weaknesses. Jack had drunk in the information, nodding stoically. He’d been determined to show the Winchesters that he wasn’t helpless, even without his Grace. Not that he believed it himself, of course, but he had to show his family that he could help.

Now his hands, shaking in fear and an overdose of adrenaline, hovered anxiously above Sam’s limp, pale body, trying to decide what to do first. They’d taught him first aid, but they hadn’t prepared him for the lacerations on Sam’s stomach, for the amount of blood oozing onto the grass beneath him, soaking Sam’s clothes.

Something grabbed his hand and he yelped, drawing back, but it was only Sam in his newfound consciousness. “Jack,” he murmured weakly.

“Sam!” The nephilim’s voice was shrill, returning to his hovering stated above the younger Winchester.

“Dean,” Sam quested, trying to shift in search of his brother, but the motion pulled at his wounds and he gasped, eyes squeezing shut.

“Dean’s behind you, I can’t get him to wake up!”

Sam winced at the panic in the boy’s voice, gripping his trembling hands gently. “What happened?”

“There was another ghoul,” Jack admitted miserably. “He came out behind Dean when the first one got you. He threw a tombstone right at him and he won’t wake up!”

“Jack,” Sam swallowed painfully. “Jack, s’okay. Is he breathing?” A nod and Sam relaxed some. “His heart sound good?”

“It’s a little fast,” Jack said nervously. “But it feels ok. It’s not weak or anything.”

“He’ll be fine,” Sam reassured him. A wave of dizziness swept over him and his questing fingers told him all he needed to know about how bad his stomach was. “First aid kit in the car.” His voice was weak, but Jack sprang to his feet to grab the medical supplies and Sam took the moment to let his bravado fall some, craning his neck to try and find sight of his brother. “Dean,” he called, trying to get his unconscious brother’s attention. “Dean, wake up.”

Nothing.

Sam hoped this was just a nasty concussion, knew he was probably much worse off. He regretted not teaching Jack more advanced first aid techniques. The lacerations had to be stitched up before he could be moved. He’d already lost more blood than he was comfortable with, given his dizziness and the fine tremor in his hands, mirroring the more severe show of fear in Jack’s own appendages, which would never allow the kid to stitch him up, even if he knew how.

Jack, who came running back to him, falling to his knees in his rush with the med kit opened swiftly. “What do I do?”

“There’s little sticks somewhere in there,” Sam said breathlessly, eyes fluttering as he tried to keep himself awake. “Little white sticks, break one open beneath Dean’s nose.”

Jack dropped the little package three times before he made it to Dean, breaking it open desperately. Dean came awake violently, gasping and coughing and Jack flung himself back, trying to keep out of the way.

Dean grabbed for his machete, looking around furiously for the ghoul that had dared get one up on him, but found them both on the ground, heads separated messily from their shoulders. He groaned, taking stock of his furiously pounding head, the pain of what felt like cracked ribs. He opened his eyes to Jack, reaching for him with shaking hands and as pale as Dean had ever seen him.

“Jack?” he asked, wariness slamming into his features. “Jack, what’s wrong? You hurt?”

Jack shook his head. “I’m fine, but Sam! He’s hurt real bad, I don’t know what to do!”

Dean followed the insistent tugging on his jacket the twenty or so feet to Sam’s body and frowned, pushing away any emotion in the face of his brother’s peril. “Heya, Sammy,” he said, voice gentle as it always was when he was tending to his little brother.

“Hey Dean,” came the weak response. “Just my stomach, I think.”

“Doesn’t look too bad,” Dean said idly, grasping in the med kit for a needle and thread, pulling his small whiskey flask out of his pocket and taking a swig. “You’re getting soft if this is what knocks you down.”

Sam huffed a breathless laugh that was lost in the midst of a voiceless cry as the remainder of the whiskey rained down upon his wounds, sterilizing it as much is they could before they could reach Cas. His hands scrabbled for purchase on the grass beneath him until Jack slipped his hand into Sam’s, holding tight despite the tremors. “M’fine, Jack,” he tried to reassure the boy, giving his hand a weak squeeze. Jack nodded, but there was obvious doubt in the kid’s frown.

Dean worked past his own wave of concussion-driven dizziness before plastering a smirk on his face. “Don’t worry about him, he’s just getting lax.”

“Says the one who took a beauty nap,” Sam said weakly. He felt Jack trying to rub some warmth into his cold fingers. He really had lost too much blood.

“Look, sunshine,” Dean retorted. “When you drag your broken ass over to sew me up, then we can talk.”

Sam opened his mouth to retort, but hissed as Dean slipped the needle through his skin, fingers deft and practiced despite his own injuries.

“Christ, take it easy, would you?” Sam gasped, eyes clenched shut.

“When did you become such a pansy, Sam?” Dean retorted and Jack opened his mouth in protest, but stopped when he saw the wink Dean gave him. It was for show, he realized. Some light banter to keep everyone’s nerves at bay in the face of grave injury. Instead he sat back, letting Sam squeeze his hand at the pain, watching intently at the way Dean went about stitching Sam’s wounds. It took less time than he thought it would, but each second stretched painfully as Sam’s demeanor further paled. When Dean pulled him up, arm around his shoulder and hissing at the grating pain the weight had on his cracked ribs, Sam collapsed back into unconsciousness.

“Shit,” Dean swore, about to bark at Jack to help him get Sam to the car, but Jack was already there, slinging Sam’s other arm around his own shoulders. The kid was pale in fear, tremors still evident in his slim frame and his lips pressed into a tight line. They dumped Sam as gently as they could in the back of the Impala and drove the half-hour back to the Bunker. Cas was already there, having just returned from a hunt much simpler than theirs had turned out to be. He’d fixed Sam up easy, proclaiming that he just needed to rest and, after several glares and insistences, had fixed Dean up too, despite the mutinous emphatics that it wasn’t worth wasting healing energy on.

So they sat in the kitchen and Dean poured Jack some much deserved scotch for a job well done, frowning when the glass clattered onto the table. He took Jack’s hands, still shaking from nerves and fear and looked down to catch the nephilim’s gaze. “What’s up?” he asked simply.

“I got it all wrong!” Jack said hopelessly, face crumpling and upset. “I got all of it wrong!”

Dean shrugged. “That happens sometimes,” he said. “A lot, actually. Sam and I agreed with you, we didn’t think there would be more than one. It’s not your fault.”

“I couldn’t even help,” Jack said hopelessly, dropping his hands and staring at the table.

“The hell you talking about?” Dean demanded. “I’m pretty sure neither Sam or I got one up on those ghouls and they were both dead with I came to. That your doing?”

Jack eyed him sideways, shrugging slightly. “I couldn’t let them get to you,” he said simply. “But they got you anyways.”

Cas raised an eyebrow. “You’re telling me you killed two ghouls on your own?” There was no disbelief, just surprise, and Jack nodded. “And yet you got it all ‘wrong’ “.

Dean almost laughed at the finger quotes, almost used correctly this time, but he turned his attention back to the youngest member of their motley family. “Jack, you did everything perfectly,” he said. “I’m impressed you got those two on your own, ghouls are no small deal. You saved our hides. It’s not your fault you didn’t know how to patch us up, that’s a shortcoming on our end. Not yours.” He scooted the scotch back towards Jack. “Drink up. You’ve earned it.”

It was no small concession on Dean’s part and Jack knew that. Praise meant the world from Dean considering their rocky beginnings and he eased slightly. The tremors in his hands were fading and he managed to get a sip of the amber liquid. “He’s really going to be ok?” he asked meekly, turning vaguely in the direction of Sam’s room, where the man was sleeping off the remnant fatigue from their wayward hunt.

“Promise,” Dean stated. “Cas’ been patching us up for years now, he’ll be fine.”

“What did you do before you met Cas?” Jack asked

“Exactly what you saw, with weeks or months off of hunting to make sure we healed up ok,” Dean explained, cringing at the memories of such rough recoveries. “Sometimes the hospital if it was really bad. Cas has been a blessing.” The seraph shifted and Dean smirked at his obvious discomfort, before his face softened again. “Live and learn, Jack. It’s all we can do. You did good. We’ll just make sure you know more about first aid for next time.”

Jack visibly brightened at the promise of ‘next time’ and took a longer drink, coughing slightly at the burn of alcohol. He felt better knowing his adoptive dads would be fine, that they still wanted him to tag along. Next time would be different. Next time he’d be better.


	2. Explosion

_The soft skin of her forehead, as coated in cold sweat as it is, is so familiar against his lips. The scent of her hair doesn’t waft away in the midst of the gut-shredded smell of blood and bile and the blonde strands brush against his cheek ever so slightly. The water in her eyes kills him, betraying the bravado of her voice as the death rattle starts to echo through her lungs. He flinches at the baying of the hellhounds, remembering the razor sharp agony as those claws shred through his body and he has to fight not to look at those exact wounds on her stomach._

_He can’t believe it ends like this. Not when he knows what it feels like. It’s not fair, she’s so young. Stupid girl, why did she have to get involved! He’d told her to stay out of hunting. They all had. But she was so stubborn, she wouldn’t listen. She had too much of her mom in her and he grudgingly accepted that he hadn’t been the best role model either, though he’d tried so to keep his influence out of her life._

_Then Sam’s pulling him away and they’re running, bolting as fast as they can away from that goddamned warehouse and -_

____________________________________________________

Dean bolted upright with a gasp, the echoes of an explosion still ringing in his head. He could feel Lisa shifting next to him, startled awake by the violent motion, but he had to get out of there. He could still hear the baying, could still feel the vibrating echoes of their homemade bomb in the air around them. He fought his way out of the tangled mess of blankets, stumbling downstairs and out the backdoor in nothing more than his sleeping pants, shaking hands fumbling for the hidden pack of cigarettes where Ben wouldn’t find them. But every time he tried to light up, the flame went out, his trembling hand too unsteady to hold the spark.

A hand on his back made him jump and whirl around wildly. Lisa backed up a step, hands held up soothingly and took the lighter and cigarette from him, starting it up and taking a drag before handing it to back. At least his trembling couldn’t put out a lit cigarette. He stood with his back against the house, his free hand over his eyes as he fought back gasping tears. He still had his dignity, even if he was slowly losing that on top of everything else. Lisa, the absolute angel that she was, just sat down on the deck, wrapping a blanket around her delicate shoulders and waited for Dean to compose himself.

He finished the first cigarette off in record time, the nicotine easing the tremors enough for him to light a second without any help, but the shotgun sound of a backfiring car made him drop it, jumping violently. Lisa picked it up, took another drag to keep it lit before handing it back to him. The taste of her lips on the paper was as grounding as the taste of tobacco and over the course of the second cigarette, Dean had calmed enough to slide down to a sitting position.

Lisa watched him carefully, keeping her distance for now. There was a hollow note to his eyes that she was becoming painfully familiar with. He’d only been with them for a month. He only told her bits and pieces of what had happened when he couldn’t keep it to himself anymore. She knew so very little of the events that had broken a man she thought made of diamond, but she also knew from personal experience that you couldn’t press trauma without making it worse and she’d always been a patient woman.

When the tremors wracking Dean’s body faded to something more imperceptible, she scooted closer, cautiously taking the hand left limply on the deck. “Hey,” she called gently.

Dean jumped slightly, eyes returning to the present as they turned to look at her. “Hey,” he returned hoarsely, putting out the cigarette butt. “Sorry.” He cleared his throat, trying to steady himself. “Didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“It’s fine,” she returned gently. She didn’t ask if he was ok when they both knew he wasn’t. Instead she shifted a little closer, slowly laying her head on his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her, drawing her close and she kissed his hand. “Someone different?” she asked cautiously. It hadn’t been about Sam. Dean always cried out for Sam in his sleep.

Dean shifted, nodding imperceptibly. “Jo.”

The name was unfamiliar to Lisa. Sam, of course. She’d heard bits and pieces of a strange man named ‘Cas’. Some old grump named Bobby, but ‘Jo’ was a new name.

“Joanna Beth Harvelle.”

The name was laced with exquisite pain and Lisa could feel how Dean couldn’t quite catch a breath. “Who was she?”

“Never got the chance to find out,” Dean said hoarsely. “Stupid kid blew herself up so we could get away.”

Lisa felt a pang in her chest, searching for some futile response, but Dean kept going.

“Good for her.” Lisa frowned in confusion, turning her head up slightly to look at him. He gave her a swift sideways glance. “Sorry,” he muttered, shifting uncomfortably.

“Don’t be,” she murmured, kissing his knuckles gently. She was confused as hell, but also knew there was so much about this world of his that she’d only glimpsed.

Dean struggled to come up with an explanation that would make sense without diving into his time in Hell or the fact he’d died for forty years. “Hellhounds,” he offered lamely, free hand gesturing in a helpless attempt to explain.

“Those are real?”

Dean nodded tightly, a tremor restarting along his spine. “Got ahold of me once,” he muttered, breaths shallowing, becoming more forced. Suddenly Lisa understood why barking, particularly the baying of the neighbor’s hound dogs, could stop Dean in his tracks, face pale and body ready to bolt. “They got Jo too. Not her soul, they couldn’t drag her to Hell, but they got in a good swipe. She was dying.”

Dean’s face was ashen, lips a tight line as he recounted the agony of memory. “Good kid. She decided to go out with a bang. But she should’ve kept her stupid ass at the Roadhouse.”

Lisa sat quietly, just listening with her eyes trained on his hand so she could pretend for the both of them that she couldn’t see the track of a tear down Dean’s cheek.


	3. Delirium

“Dean, his fever’s already at 103.8. I really think we should take him in.”

“What are we going to tell them, Sam? Oh hey, so this two year old man-baby is only recently human and his newly weakened immune system doesn’t _actually_ know how to fight off infection and this is the first time he’s been sick since his angel Grace got sucked out of him by Satan.”

Sam had to really fight not to laugh at the term man-baby, despite the worry that weighed him down. “I gave him as much Advil as I dared, but it doesn’t seem to be making a dent.”

“Honestly I’m surprised this didn’t happen sooner,” Dean muttered. “He’s never had to fight off an infection before, his Grace always did that for him. This was bound to happen sooner or later, we just have to wait it out.”

Jack moaned, shifting anxiously in his sleep. Sam grasped his shoulder gently and he quieted, heat radiating off his body in uncomfortable amounts. “I’m going to go grab some water, try to get some fluids into him.”

“Grab an IV kit while you’re at it,” Dean called as his brother walked out into the hallway. “Some saline might lower his fever.”

“Good thinking,” Sam called back, striding away to the infirmary.

Dean sighed, rubbing his face. He was never supposed to have kids, this unfamiliar worry agitated him more than he wanted to admit. It was similar to his worry when Sam was sick, but … different somehow. He shied away from the word “paternal”.

He turned back to Jack and jumped a foot in the air when he saw Jack’s eyes were wide open and trained on him. He swore, settling himself. “How you feeling, kid?”

Silence.

Fever-bright eyes trailed over the room, Jack’s face faltering the more he looked. An alarm rang in Dean’s mind as tears slid down his cheeks.

“Why?”

Jack’s voice was hoarse and scratchy from his illness, though it might have equally been from the flood of emotion evident in his features.

“Why what, Jack?”

“Why would you side with them?”

Dean frowned in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

Jack gestured weakly around the empty room, as though that explained everything. “I could have helped you. You would have been safe with us. Sam and Dean told me about you. They said you helped them in the other world, I don’t understand how you could be so different here. They told me were a hero, but you’ve just killed them all. Michael won’t help you. You killed them for nothing.”

Anxiety roiled in Dean’s stomach. “Jack,” he called hesitantly. “You know where you are?”

“What’s going on?” Sam asked with a frown, walking back into the room. Jack’s eyes locked onto his in a mixture of fear and hatred so potent it made Sam take a step back. “Jack?”

“He’s hallucinating,” Dean warned.

“What did you do to him?” Jack demanded.

“What did I do to who?” Sam asked, completely lost.

“Kevin,” Jack spat.

Sam nearly dropped the glass of water he was holding and he heard Dean swear quietly. “How do you know that name, Jack?” He tried to keep his voice calm, even, but he felt numb. A flash of torched eyes passed in his mind and he forced it away. He took a step forward, but Jack balked.

“Stay away from me! What did you do to me?!”

Sam backed up, hands held up as much as he could in what he hoped was a placating manner around the glass of water in your hands. “Jack, it’s Sam. You’re sick, that’s all. You’ve got a fever and you’re hallucinating. Whatever you’re seeing, it’s not real.”

Jack ignored him, staggering to his feet. His back shuddered, muscles rippling down his spine and he looked afraid. “How did you do that? I can’t … what did you do to me? Where are my wings, they were just here … ”

Dean’s heart broke for the nephilim in front of him. He remembered how fractured Cas had been in the absence of his wings when he’d been human. Even though they’d been damaged and practically useless, his wings had marked him as the angel he was and the loss of such a hallmark had been more jarring then anything else he’d experienced while human.

“Michael … “ Jack’s eyes rolled into his head and he collapsed into a dead faint. Dean leapt forward and caught him before he crashed into the dresser, scooping him up and setting him back into bed. “Kid’s light as a feather,” he said gruffly. “And he feels like a furnace.”

“Go get me a sedative, and something for his fever,” Sam said quietly, pulling up a chair next to Jack’s bed with his IV supplies. He heard Dean walk out of the room behind him and sterilized Jack’s arm. He was dehydrated and it took a few seconds of concentration to successfully slide the catheter into a willing vein, but he started the saline on a slow drip and added the sedative and liquid ibuprofen to the line, keeping Jack in a state of light sedation. The young nephilim tossed fitfully, caught in a twilight state of unreality. He muttered feverishly to a Michael that existed solely in his mind, pleading with the other world’s Kevin.

“You ok, Sam?” Dean asked quietly.

Sam declined to answer, staying silent for a moment. “You know, with how young he is, it’s easy to forget how much he’s been through. I forget that he’s already fought a war, has lost people to battle and he’s only what? Two?”

“About,” Dean admitted. “But no one in this life starts off easy. He got thrown into it just like the rest of us.”

“He shouldn’t have had to.”

“None of us should have, Sammy.”

Sam sent a sideways look at his brother, shifting off his grim mood. Jack cried out weakly, pleading with Michael to get away from “her”.

“Shh,” Sam murmured, carding his long fingers through Jack’s sweat-soaked blonde hair. He could only assume Jack was referring to Mary. “She’s safe, Jack. Mom’s safe. Everything’s fine.”

Everything’s fine. He could repeat that lie and run it into the ground for Jack’s sake.

Everything’s fine.


	4. Human Shield

The grin was vicious, laced with the overconfidence of one who believed they’d already won.

He was young, Dean noted. Very young, likely newly turned. He seemed too cocky to be part of a pack, whether it had been originally intended or not. Despite that cockiness, he wasn’t as big as he seemed to want to be viewed. He was a good head shorter than Sam, who he held close against himself, using Dean’s little brother has his own personal shield. Sam’s eyes were hard, cold, but there was little he could do against the steel edge perched precariously against his throat.

“Sorry, Dean,” he apologized quietly. He hadn't been paying enough attention.

“It’s all good, Sammy,” Dean said evenly, eyes trained down the sights of his Colt. He couldn’t get in a clear shot. Sam was big enough to be a good shield, he admitted grudgingly. And even if this werewolf was stupid enough to come after them, he was smart enough to keep his more vital areas behind Sam’s body.

Cas stood stock-still next to Dean, angel blade in hand and as helpless as the Winchester. Angel or no, there was little he could to without ensuring Sam’s death.

“They told me not to go after you, but you’re easy game,” the werewolf crowed behind Sam.

“Who’s they?” Dean asked conversationally, tone belied by the lethal stance he kept.

“My pack,” he spat. “I told them we could take on the world, but they were too worried about the Winchesters.” He spoke their name with derision. “But you’re easy game. I can’t believe you’ve built up this kind of rap!”

Sam looked between him and Cas steadily before locking eyes with Dean. “He’s no more than a pebble,” he said mildly.

“Yeah well this pebble’s holding your life in his hands,” the werewolf snarled, pressing the knife into the skin of Sam’s neck, grinning at the small flinch he earned.

Dean shook his head imperceptibly at the code word. No fucking way. Cas, having been educated early on in their lingo, shifted nervously. Take the shot, Sam told them. Logically, it made sense. Being in such close proximity, the bullet would rip through Sam and right into his captor’s body. Dean’s aim was impeccable; he’d aim as well as he could, but Sam’s lungs were right in front of the bastard’s heart. It wouldn’t be kill Sam right away and Cas would be there to heal him up before he could die.

But this was terribly risky coming from Sam. This was something that typically came from Dean and the reckless suggestion piqued at something neither man nor angel could touch on.

Sam shifted subtly, changing his weight to fall away once he’d been hit, but the werewolf took it as a nervous gesture and laughed. “Who’d have thought a newb could make the big bads so nervous!” Sam hissed as the knife broke the skin, sending a slim ribbon of scarlet down his throat. He locked his eyes back to Dean, lips pressed into a thin line, but he saw the doubt in Dean’s narrowed eyes. He wasn’t going to do it, but Sam knew they were running out of time. The only reason his throat hadn’t been slit already was because the stupid son of a bitch was too busy gloating about how he’d already won.

“Dean!” he snapped. Before the werewolf could register the sudden change in tone, there was a bang and Sam was falling exactly where he’d aimed. He heard three more gunshots before the pain finally registered, tearing through his chest like he’d been hit by a train. He tried gasping for breath, but only tasted the hot tang of iron in his mouth as he choked. He heard Dean calling his name, his brother’s voice echoing faintly. Everything was faint and so far away.

A brilliant flash of light flared through his weakly closing eyelids and the pain vanished. Consciousness surged back and his hearing slammed into his head, registering Dean’s loud, panicked calls. Sam bolted into a sitting position, hunched over as he coughed in large quantities of oxygen, spitting out the remaining blood coating his mouth. His chest heaved, trying to grasp as much air as he could, fingers scrabbling around the area the bullet had pierced just seconds before.

“Sam! Sammy!”

He was being shaken. He batted Dean away with a quivering hand, groaning low as he winced, breaths coming more evenly. “I’m fine. I’m fine, Dean. Knock it off.” He rubbed his chest compulsively until a punch sent him flying onto his back. He stared up at Dean in shock, rubbing his jaw. “The hell was that for?” he demanded.

Dean’s eyes were hard in fear as he grabbed Sam’s jacket in his fists, hauling him back up for another punch, getting it in before Cas intervened, pulling the older Winchester off his brother. Sam stumbled to his feet as Dean pushed Cas off, stalking back towards Sam before Cas reappeared in front of the man, keeping him from getting in another hit. “The _fuck_ was that?” Dean shouted hoarsely. Sam rubbed his jaw, glaring at his older brother. “That was the stupidest thing I’ve seen in a goddamn long line of stupid, Sam!”

“Were you seeing another option?” Sam demanded. “Cas was here, it was fine!”

“Fine except for the death rattle in your lungs!” Dean’s voice cracked through his shouting and Sam straightened from his defensive stance, watching his older brother with wide eyes. Regret filled his stomach and he relented, walking over to his panicked older brother. Cas watched Dean carefully, ready to intervene if Dean decided to stay violent, but when Sam walked over, the older Winchester merely threw his arms around his baby brother in a tight embrace. “Don’t you _ever_ make me do that again, you stupid son of a bitch,” Dean snapped hoarsely.

“Sorry, Dean,” Sam said guiltily, feeling the tremor of fear in his brother’s tense body. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“No fucking kidding,” came the angry reply. “I can’t - “ his voice faltered, but he didn’t need to finish. Sam hadn’t been back all that long and Dean was still afraid of losing him after the last incident was so fresh in his mind. They stood back after a moment, Cas clapping them awkwardly on the shoulders.

“Thanks, Cas,” Sam said awkwardly, for both the quick healing and keeping Dean from beating him senseless. The hard, worried look in the seraph’s eyes made it clear that Cas hadn’t been too fond of his plan either. Sam winced, gripping his shoulder in a silent apology before going for the salt and gas in the car to take care of the werewolf’s body.


	5. Gunpoint

Even the emerald of Dean’s eyes have changed. There’s no spark of life there, no good humor glittering like sunlight through spring leaves. Just a blink of acid before the black envelops them, a shift that makes Cas’ already failing heart stutter.

“You don’t look too good.”

Dean’s voice is light, conversational, despite the gun that’s pointed directly between Cas’ eyes. “I’ve felt better,” the seraph returns cautiously.

“Sam send you after me?”

Cas shakes his head, ignoring the dizziness that the motion causes. “Just came in for a drink,” he says tiredly. Dean raises an eyebrow at him, obvious disbelief in the solid black of his eyes that reminds Cas too much of Dean’s soul in Hell.

“And just happened to stroll into the very one I was inhabiting. Sure, Cas. You know, I left a note for Sam and told him to leave me be.”

Pain rips through Cas, remembering the broken wreck he’d found Sam. “You’re killing him, Dean,” he says softly.

A nonchalant shrug. “That ain’t on me. I told him to leave me behind.”

“And in your over three decades of life, when have you ever known that to have worked?” Cas asked, pain making him a tad snappish.

Dean clicks the safety of his gun off, irritation flickering across his all-familiar features. “He’s his own man and I don’t need preaching to. My life’s just fine as it is.”

Cas sighs, torment writhing in a body that already feels like it’s being corrupted at an atomic level. “I truly did just come in for a drink,” he said quietly. “I did not expect to see you here. If Sam cannot locate you, an accidental crossing was not something I had anticipated.”

To Cas’ surprise, Dean takes one hand off his Colt and slides a bottle of vodka down the counter to him. The angel looks between the barrel staring him down and back to Dean’s face, a brow quirked up in confusion, but he raises the bottle to Dean and takes a long swig.

Dean watches the angel carefully, noting all the emotions that play out on Cas’ starkly readable features. Something’s seriously wrong with him. He looks like a terminal cancer patient after chemo’s stopped working. He looks like he’s dying.

That plucks at something inside him, but he can’t figure out what. He chalks it up to professional curiosity and ignores the threads of discomfort poking faintly at him. Any remnants of feeling, anything they might have had between them in his past life, Dean’s a demon now and angel’s don’t mix well. That’s something Cas should realize, but it doesn’t seem to stop him from trying to save Dean’s Hell-riddled ass.

Cas finishes off the bottle and stands up, walking towards Dean. “Don’t,” he warns, casual voice turning hard. Cas stumbles forward anyways, running a tired hand through his dark hair. He only stops when the cold barrel of Dean’s gun presses into his forehead, when he hears the click of Dean cocking his handgun. “I ain’t giving you another warning.”

“Would you do it?”

Dean cocks his head to the side, regarding the angel in front of him. He can feel the pressure of his gun pressed between the angel’s washed-out eyes. Cas is exhausted and he looks done with it all. A fit of coughing wracks his body and he bends in half painfully. When he stands back straight, he’s paler than before, chest moving with light, unsteady breaths. “You want me to just put you out of your misery?” he asks, voice regaining a casual lilt. “Seems like you don’t have much time left anyways, angel.”

Cas flinches at the impersonal use of his species rather than his name, but the resignation in his eyes never wavers. Dean debates about the situation for a long time. He could kill Cas easy, it wasn’t like he was putting up a fight. There was little doubt in his mind that he’d feel badly about it, he just didn’t have that capacity after his demonic resurrection. Cas more or less looked like a dog that had been hit by a car and was past saving but not quite dead yet and putting him out of his misery would likely be a mercy to him.

That thought made him quail, just slightly. He declined to study whether or not it was the mercy bit or actually pulling the trigger that made him uneasy, but he uncocked his gun and slid it back into the waistband of his jeans. “Nah,” he said quietly. “You ain’t getting off that easy.” He swung hard, demonic strength knocking Cas back several feet to crash into the booth. “Tell Sammy to get off his high horse and quit following me. And tell him to quit sending you like an attack dog. It ain’t ethical to make you do his dirty work.”

He stepped over the angel’s body and left the crumpled form behind him, pretending he couldn’t hear the gasping that sounded more like sobs than anything else.


	6. Dragged Away

A flash of light caught Eileen's attention. Frowning slightly as she turned away from the open lore book she was studying, she smiled as she saw the caption.

"Text from Sam Winchester."

She keyed open her phone, ignoring the article on the harpy she was hunting down and read with a small smirk before typing back a quick reply. Talking about monsters was basically Sam's way of flirting. It had been a month or so since she'd seen him last, each too wrapped up in their own cases to meet up. Hopefully after she wrapped up this harpy, she thought contentedly to herself, she'd go surprise him.

She yawned, standing up to make a cup of coffee. It was late and she wanted to finish these few articles off before going to bed. The hunter was a few days out from trapping the thing, and she wanted to be up early enough to do some recon before starting work on a plan to gank it. She poured herself a cup of the fragrant, hot liquid and blew on it for a moment before taking a sip, running over the information she had already gathered thus far.

Something boomed in Eileen'sears and she jumped with a startled cry, dropping the mug to shatter upon the floor. Standing stock still, she cast out with her senses, trying to understand what just happened. She looked down at the broken ceramic, eyes furrowed in confusion. She hadn't heard the cup shatter, of course. Just felt the vibrations in the floor. Likewise, she hadn't heard her own cry, merely felt it in her chest. She hadn't been able to hear in longer than she remembered. So what had just happened?

Booming sounded again and she jumped, biting back a second cry. Walking quickly to the hotel's bedside, she grabbed her handgun, checking it over swiftly before cocking it, senses stretched to her limits. This didn't make any sense, she couldn't _hear_ anything. She hadn't heard anything since that banshee had deafened her as an infant. She snapped her fingers gently outside both her ears just in case.

Nothing.

What the hell?

Dust shook from the door frame and she slipped over silently, a hand held cautiously to the door. It was shaking, as though someone, or _something_, were trying to get in. Something _big._ Her body grew taut, checking the salt lines above the windows and doors. The booming was growing louder now, more constant. Whatever it was, the fact she could miraculously hear it didn't bode well for her. Certainly, it was nothing she'd ever come across in the past. She would have remembered something like this. 

Something moved past the window, a dark, shadow-like creature. Eileen, backed against the wall, eased back the cheap curtain slightly to get a better view. But before she could make sense of the hulking body, it crashed through the window, glass bursting inwards to rain upon the floor. The hunter's heart sunk through her stomach. 

It was massive, larger than any canine she'd ever seen. Smoky black, as though it wasn't quite substantial, with glowing, coal-red eyes. Lips curled over gigantic, lethal teeth.

Hell hound.

Eileen bolted, vaulting through the shattered window. Her feet pounded across the ground, heading for the woods behind the cheap hotel she'd been holing in. Mind racing, she looked over her shoulder, seeing the beast leap out and charge after her. Why was it here? She knew better than to make demon deals of any kind! She shoved her hand into her pocket to grab her phone, call for help, but realized in despair that she'd left it behind.

Whirling around, she fired her gun, punching a bullet deep into the hell hound's shoulder. She heard its sharp yelp, gasping slightly at the pain it caused her ears. She didn't have time to think about what was happening; she turned back and ran further into the woods, hoping against all logic to lose her pursuer in the trees and brush. The pounding in the ground, gaining strength behind her, told her how futile it was. She turned to shoot again, but the hell hound barreled into her back, throwing her several feet away to the ground. The landing knocked the breath out of her lungs and she gasped to reclaim it, trying to right herself before it was too late, but before she could stumble to her feet, the beast was on top of her, gun knocked too far away to be of any use.

The pain was exquisite. In her life as a hunter, nothing could have prepared her for the slashing claws and puncturing teeth of a hell hound as it tore her body to ribbons. She could hear the ripping snarls of the as it dug into her, but she couldn't hear her own screams piercing the night air around them. There was a sickening shift in perception and the hell hound, latched onto her midriff, began dragging her away. She fought back, kicking and writhing, but her eyes caught sight of of her prone body, now yards away and she realized in horror that she had died.

She was dead and her soul was being dragged down to Hell. 

She fought harder, twisting and hitting and even biting what she could reach, but nothing seemed to phase the hell hound. Her senses felt like mud in water as her soul was dragged through what felt like the earth itself until she was surrounded by smoke and flame, bolts of lightning flashing through the sulphur-laden air. But despite the fear and the sickening smell, the very air making her soul ache, the most notable thing about her first glimpse of Hell was the sound. 

Eileen could hear. But all she could hear were screams.


	7. Isolation

Grey.

It was all just grey.

Dean stared at the wall dully, the little scratches in the concrete blending and blurring together. He blinked to clear his vision and slapped himself a few times to try and get more mental clarity. He’d made those scratches to keep some semblance of passing time. Every shout of “Chow time!” to mark half a day.

Had he missed one or two? He was starting to doubt the accuracy of his timekeeping. Lips set in a thin line as he recognized that the torture of isolation was actually working. He’d been in iso before, more than once. He and Sam had done their fair share of (undeserved) jail time, but this time was different. This time there was no conversation through slits in the door with another unfortunate soul who’d lost a bit too much of their temper. There was no end to this.

There was no end.

Dean swallowed thickly; fear was a constant pit in his stomach. It had been for the last two weeks, by his shoddy calculations. If he’d actually done something wrong, he would have begged for release by now, given up a ridiculous game of pride to confess his sins. How was he supposed to confess to the attempted murder of the POTUS? He hadn’t been the one they were after, but he and Sam would earn a one-way ticket to the world’s most secure loony bin if they confessed that they’d been trying to save the President by forcing the actual devil out of him.

He blinked away an apparition of Alistair, leering down at him as he laid on the bed. The hallucinations were starting to come more frequently, the past few days. It was like being fresh out of Hell all over again. A hand splayed out on the wall he shared with Sam. The poor bastard probably had it so much worse. He’d tried banging on the wall the first week or so, but the walls were too thick to carry sound.

His hand fell back to the bed, rubbing along the opposite forearm. He’d taken to marking himself up with the screw he used to identify the passing time on the wall. Any variant from the dull monotony that sucked away the days was welcome, even if that something was pain. It had kept his mind from turning on itself so far, but he had to wonder how much longer that was going to work.

Pain split down his leg as he burst off the bed, accidentally ramming it into the harsh metal frame he slept upon. He couldn’t take this anymore. He just couldn’t. Sam was likely in a similar state, if not worse. They had to get out of there.

“Billie.” He winced, voice hoarse from disuse. “Billie, I know you’re watching.”

Nothing. Anger flitted across his face and he ran his hand through his too-long hair. “C’mon, man. I’m actually begging here.”

Still nothing. Dean hesitated for a moment, dread increasing in his stomach. “Look, we’re … Sam and I, we’re are in a real bind. You probably know that, but I’m ready to deal. Whatever you have to offer, Billie, I swear to god. Please, just get us out of here. Please.”

“You know it’s gonna be good when a Winchester takes to begging.”

Dean whirled around. He could have cried at the sound of another voice, even if that voice was accompanied by a particularly nasty smirk. “Oh my god,” he breathed, drinking in the vibrant sight of something other than the grey around him. “I can’t even fucking tell you how good it is to see you,” he admitted hoarsely.

“Groveling ain’t gonna get you far,” the Reaper warned. “You said you were ready to deal.”

“Get us out of here,” Dean said, desperation coloring his body language. “Get us out and one of us ain’t walking away. No take-backs, no trying to get out of it, no letting the other one figure something out. I swear. Get us out of here and you can have one of us for good.”

“And I’m assuming that’ll be you.”

“Honestly, I … “ Dean faltered, grief twisting his face. “I can’t answer that,” he admitted after a moment. “Sam’s got to be in a similar state of mind, at this point even the afterlife has to be better than this. We’ll have to talk it out.”

Billie cocked her head to the side, regarding him with interest. The intense look made his skin crawl, but he had nothing to hide at this point. Hell had, actually, been better than this.

A blink of the eye and Billie was gone. Dean fell to his knees, the shock of pain on the hard floor unable to help him clarify if the Reaper had ever been there at all. Had he imagined the entire exchange? Had she decided against it, too vengeful to take him up on the offer? A tear tracked down his cheek as his breathing came hard and fast through his nose. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, but the swear was without bite. Fear ate away any venom as the minutes ticked by.

“Twenty-four hours.”

Dean’s head whipped around, finding Billie leaning into the corner behind him, inspecting the polish on her nails. “What?”

“Twenty-four hours. I’ll get you and your brother out of here, but that’s how long you have until I come for one of you. You’d better have decided by then.” She walked around, crouching down to look him in the eye. “Or I’ll decide for you.”

She vanished again and, thirty seconds later, Dean’s heart stopped.


	8. Stab Wound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously I didn't finish, but, to my credit, I didn't even start until three weeks in. I do intend to finish all of these prompts, despite the disappointed chill of November.

Every angel in Heaven's history had been re-educated at some point in their long lives. Everyone doubted; everyone lost faith. After all, God hadn't been seen in over two millennia and, even then, the number of angels who'd seen Him even when He _had_ been around was ... limited. After watching over humanity for eons, it was only natural for a celestial being to leech off of the emotions of God's lesser creations. It happened.

But it usually only happened once. 

There was a certain amount of amnesia that accompanied re-education. It was a traumatic process, something that forced humanity's influence from an angel's Grace. They were pure beings and, regardless of God's love for humans, there was no room for their taint within their celestial aether. Every angel knew what happened to those brothers and sisters who fell. It was a fate that caused a collective shudder through their wings. To have one's Grace ripped from them was an agony that only sigil banishment could _hint _at and, even then, it couldn't come close. That was why re-education was so important: to fall was to fail in a fate worse than death. That's why these sessions usually only happened once.

Castiel was a leader among angels. He had lead legions, commanded armies, protected important bloodlines. 

He also held Heaven's record for re-education sessions. 

"It's not that you're a bad soldier," Zachariah mused, twisting the angel blade currently embedded in his 'student's' stomach. "In fact, you're one of our best. You're one of Heaven's most revered. Not anyone would be given the task of watching over the Winchester bloodline." He ripped out the angel blade and Castiel uttered a breathless sob, feeling his Grace leaking from the wound in gentle rivulets of blue light. 

It was Castiel's own blade and that was a horror of itself. Like an angel's wings, an angel's blade was a physical manifestation of their own Grace. To have such an intimate part of oneself used as a weapon, something to cause agony ... there were no words in any language Castiel knew to describe such a taboo.

The gleaming metal was cosmically cold as it brushed against his wings, pinned into the wall behind him. They twitched, trying to furl the appendages into his back, but the wounds from the pins made him whimper, keeping them firmly to the wall.

"I think it's likely that you've been so ... hands on in your time," Zachariah concluded, whipping Castiel's angel blade across one of his four wings. A choked cry forced itself from the shackled angel, more Grace dripping from the new laceration. "I really hate to do this. You know that, Castiel." Zachariah's voice was clinical, clipped. Lacking the sincerity that should have accompanied the words. "But you have to be more aware of humanity's influence. You've got a bad track record. If you weren't such a phenomenal soldier, you'd have been demoted by now. Or retired." 

A new shudder ripped through the bleeding angel at the unspoken threat. An angel's retirement meant death.

"Management is willing to work with you through these little episodes of disobedience and lack of faith - "

"I don't ... mean to question ... H-him," Castiel interrupted, soft voice stuttering and hitched in the agony of his wounds.

"I _know_ that," Zachariah reassured. "But these little episodes can be ... troubling. Remember that incident with Abraham? Thank Father we got to you before you could warn him off Isaac, but that could have been a serious chink in Father's plans. You redeemed yourself with the plagues in Egypt, that was _really_ well done. And then again with the World Wars! It's successes like these that keep you in our good graces. But Castiel ... even with such triumphs, these little _blips_ you keep having, well ... they just don't look _good_!" 

Castiel screamed as his angel blade punctured through his chest. Wings and arms struggled despite the restraints as the blade sunk into the wall behind him, emerging between the juncture of his wings. Zachariah kept it there, embedded grotesquely as he stepped back to watch his subject twitch and shiver in shock. The angel shook his head, sighing as though rebuking a petulant child. 

"You've got to get it together. War is coming. A war bigger than anything we've ever known. The Devil is gathering his forces for the End. The Apocalypse. We _cannot_ lose!" He ripped the blade out, a gasping cry following the smoky burstof Grace that followed. "We cannot lose," he reiterated. "Everything depends on what is to come and you have the most _important_ job. The Winchester bloodline has been entrusted to _you_, Castiel." 

Castiel looked up weakly, honor and pride fluttering his his chest around the shock of agony ripping through his being. Zachariah's voice had gentled, purring softly into his ear. "That s-such an honor would be given to one as ... as lowly as I," he whispered. Pain bled through his voice, pointedly ignored by both angels.

"Do you doubt Him?" Zachariah questioned. 

Fear shook Castiel as he shook his head desperately. "No!" he insisted earnestly. "Please. Zachariah. I will not fail. I have faith!" 

"I know you do," Zachariah crooned. "Keep hold of your faith." 

The angel blade stabbed into a wing, carving through feather and flesh as screams echoed through Heaven's corridors.


	9. Shackled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not terribly happy with this one. I couldn't describe the scenes in my head appropriately. Oh well.

"You can't do this!" Rowena's voice was shrill, filling the room with her fury. "After everything I've done for this Coven, this is how you repay me? I knew you were jealous creatures, but this is beyond anything!" 

The other women in the room ignored her raging, intent on their individual assignments. This was a massive spell, requiring many exotic ingredients and enchantments in foreign tongues. Every detail had to be perfect, or the spell would go terribly, terribly wrong. 

Rowena MacLeod was chained and shackled, forcibly kneeling in the middle of a vast and complicated sigil. Runes etched into the chains and into the floor dampened her magic and it made her panic. She'd always had magic; it had been the one constant in her life, the only thing that she'd always been able to count on. Now, she couldn't even summon enough to break a single link in her bonds. 

Eighty years, she'd been an esteemed member of the Grand Coven. Eighty years she'd served and the Coven had grown, flourishing in might and power. The Coven had been nothing without her! She seethed at their selfish ingratitude. She was more powerful than all of them; this was nothing more than childish jealousy, but it was a pettiness with the ability of powerful magic. Powerful enough, perhaps, to strip her of her own.

"We warned you, Rowena." Olivette strode forward, carrying a flashing pair of scales balanced perfectly with brightly coloured powders.

Rowena scoffed at the blonde. "Warned me against what? Advancing the Coven's prowess? Experimenting and delving into practices not dared by those too weak to see their promise? I've gained knowledge beyond your imaginings! It's not my fault that the small-minded and the scared decided not to expand their powers!" 

Olivette rolled her eyes, placing the scales on the alter before her. "These practices are dangerous. We have told you this, time and time again. Witches have died. Members of our own Coven!" 

"Sacrifices must be made if greatness is to be achieved," Rowena sniffed dismissively. "Power is not an idle goal." There was a fine tremble to her Scottish lilt, one she'd never admit to. She was in deep trouble and her nature kept her from making close ties to anyone. Typically this was ideal; she never had her trust betrayed because she never trusted anyone. But now that same trait meant she was utterly alone, with no cavalry to rescue her. Her jaw set as she tugged angrily at her restraints. She'd be damned if she let on to her fear. They didn't deserve to see her afraid, not after everything she'd done for them.

The aura around them shifted as the witches in the far corners of the room began to chant quietly, hands gesticulating above the ingredients gathered for their part of the spell. Rowena shifted nervously, the rich silk of her gown doing little to ward against the chill that had sprung into the air. Magic roiled, shifting and ebbing in response to the beginning stages of the enchantment. 

More voices joined as the second group began their own incantations and Rowena began murmuring quietly to herself, counter-spells whispered fiercely in an attempt to shield herself from the building assault.

"Don't be a fool," Olivette spat. "There's no helping you. Powerful you may be, but you cannot stand alone against the gathered might of the Coven!" 

Rowena's eyes flashed violet and she smiled vindictively at the other witch, the fear in Olivette's eyes fueling her resolve. Her counter-magic wouldn't be able to shield her completely, not with the binding sigils dampening her magic. But, with any luck, it should keep a modicum of her power from being stripped completely, as the Coven's spell intended.

The final group of witches, Olivette included, began their own spells. Ancient commands in a myriad of languages - Latin, Celtic, Babylonian, even Persian - filled every corner and nook of the room. Rowena's voice matched their pitch and power, attempting to guide her magic around the physical and magical shackles holding her down. It was difficult. It hurt. But Rowena had gone through so much in her life, she could endure torment if it meant keeping her magic in any form. 

Voices reached a feverish pitch, enhanced by the blasts of fire from the gathered ingredients. Rowena matched the counter-spells word for word, finding any loophole and deficiency she could manipulate.

"Exilium!" 

A dozen voices shouted the final word of magic and Rowena shrieked, voice high as she felt invisible clamps pounding down the violet light within her. It was a feeling so constricting she felt as though she could not breathe and she collapsed into a dead faint.

______________________________________________________________________

“Rowena. Rowena, you must wake up!”

The lilting voice was quiet, insistent. Rowena frowned, groaning as she woke to emphatic shakes upon her delicate shoulders. She could feel the cold metal falling from her wrists and she whimpered at the tenderness of her bleeding wrists.

“Aisling, we have to hurry. If Olivette finds out … “

“She can’t use magic anymore, Rhea, she’s of no danger to us now.”

“That won’t make a difference to Olivette!”

The shaking grew more persistent and her eyes fluttered open, seeing two witches she recognized in passing. They were young, always looking up at her with awe and a healthy amount of fear and hadn’t been with the Coven for more than a few years. More importantly, they hadn’t been a part of the spell binding her magic.

Her magic.

She gave a low cry. She was so weak. It was as though her life force had been drained away. A tear slipped from her eye to fall upon the tile beneath her before she was forced into a sitting position. The last of her chains fell to the ground and her arms were gripped around the two witches’ necks as they hauled her out of the room.

“There’s no time,” Rhea hissed. “We’re getting you out of here before Olivette comes back.”

“We can’t get you far,” Aisling added, slipping something into a pocket in Rowena’s gown. “But we’ve made some hex bags to hide you from her Sight. It should keep you safe from the Coven for awhile.”

They helped her out the door and into the brisk night air. A horse-drawn cart was waiting out front and the two women helped Rowena into the back, shoving a bag with what felt like her possessions and some food into her lap. Their faces held remorse and regret. “We’re sorry,” Aisling said quietly. “No witch’s magic should ever be taken from her.”

“Blessed be,” Rhea said quietly. The lurched and the sharp sound of hooves on stone rang in the air as the carriage drew away. Tears streamed down Rowena’s face out of sight, mourning the loss of something intrinsically part of herself, that had defined her. Anger soon replaced her grief and she looked deep within herself, something that was far easier without the binding sigils. It took a long time but, eventually, she saw sparks of violet within her mind. The more she probed, the more those sparks ignited into flames of magic. Her laugh reverberated in the forest around her as hope bloomed within her chest. Her counter-spell had worked. They hadn’t stolen all of her magic, they hadn’t even taken _most _of it. With her magic-infused vision she could see violet shackles encircling her wrist. She could feel it around her throat. Magical chains wrapped around her body and it was agony, but she could break these shackles. She was sure of it. One day, Olivette would suffer.

Rowena would ensure it.


	10. Unconscious

"Jack? Jack! Come on, man, wake up!" Dean slapped the kid's face lightly. Sam was next to him, taking his pulse with a tight face. His heart rate was high; no dangerously so, but enough to make Sam edgy. Jack had been swatted aside like a fly, his head making a sickening crack on the canyon wall loud enough to be heard twenty feet away. Now they couldn't wake him up. 

"This was a bad idea," Cas bit out tersely. Dean shot him a glare.

"We couldn't have known. It was a classic Wendigo case, right out of the textbook."

"Even if it _had_ been a Wendigo like we'd though," Cas argued. "They're too dangerous for Jack's current level. He wasn't ready." 

"Guys," Sam snapped. His voice was low, quiet, but the bite to the singular word was enough to shut the other two up. Dean looked up at the other men's panicked faces trained intently on Jack's unconscious form and it occurred to him, in a fit of near-hysterics, how intensely paternal they'd all become. "We've got smelling salts in the Impala," the younger Winchester continued.

"That's two miles off!" Dean protested. 

"I can't get him to wake up any other way." Sam said tensely. "I've tried everything."

"Cas?" Dean turned to the angel, but he shook his head.

"I'm still regenerating my Grace," Cas said guiltily. "I do not possess enough power to scan his body, wake him up _and_ heal him and I would prefer to save my Grace to heal Jack if we can wake him up and have Sam assess the damage." 

Dean shifted self-consciously, knowing Cas had blown his Grace to save his ass not a week ago, when a couple of werewolves had torn into him while he'd been blind drunk. It had driven home how much Cas' power depended on Heaven's dwindling numbers. Dean cleared his throat and balanced all the options in his mind before setting his jaw. "Alright," he finally said. "Cas, can you carry him? I'll dispose of ... that." He looked over at the _not_-Wendigo with distaste and set about burning the corpse while Sam gathered up their scattered belongings before they all set off.

Sam checked the kid's vitals every few minutes, worry etched in every line of his face. He probed the bleeding area on Jack's skull with gentle fingers, trying to find evidence of fractures or cracks but, thankfully, found nothing but split skin. Head wounds always bled profusely, he knew that, but the knowledge didn't make him feel any better. The entire side of Jack's head was caked in red in various shades of freshness, staining his blonde hair. It made him nauseous.

"What was that, anyways?" Dean's voice interrupted the oppressive quiet around them as they fought through the forest's foliage and back to Baby. He was trying to find something to distract them, but the mental image of a headless humanoid, face set in its chest, was nightmarish on its own. 

"I think it was a Blemyae," Sam said absently. "Also known as an Epiphagi or Akephaloi, depending on which culture you're coming from."

"Nerd," Dean shot out, though the insult was without bite.

Sam shot him a grateful half-smile, knowing his big brother was trying to keep his mind off of his worry for Jack. "They're tribal creatures. Usually they're pretty docile - " 

"That did not seem docile," Cas interrupted flatly.

"Must have been a rogue," Sam shrugged. "It happens. They must have kicked it out and it took to preying on hikers to survive. They're really rare, actually, especially in America. They've only been sighted once, maybe twice in the past century." 

A groan sounded, soft but enough for the three men's attentions to laser focus on Jack as he shifted slightly in Cas' arms. They paused, watching him carefully for a long moment for him to wake up, but Jack drifted back into unconsciousness. "We should hurry," Cas said tightly. The rest of the journey was made in silence. 

Once the Impala was spotted through the brush, Dean jogged ahead and opened the trunk, rifling through the first aid kit for the sticks of smelling salts, grabbing one and breaking it beneath Jack's nose, who now lay cradled in Cas' arms on the gravel road. After a short - and entirely too long - moment, Jack came-to violently, shooting up with cough-choked shout. The motion jarred his injuries and he bowed over, cradling his head in his hands with a groan. 

A collective sigh of relief sounded from the men surrounding their adopted son and Dean clapped a placated hand on the kid's shoulder, squeezing tightly. Sam went through the steps of a neurologic evaluation, checking for signs of any serious repercussions of the head wound, but the most important step had already been taken. Jack had woken up. 


	11. Stitches

"Son of a bitch!" The curse was forced through gritted teeth and drowned by another gulp of whiskey.

"Stop being such a baby," Sam chided. "It's not like this is your first time getting stitched up." 

"You used to be gentler," Dean muttered, sulking on the edge of his chair while Sam concentrated on the needle he was threading through the layers of his older brother's skin. 

"If you stopped getting yourself torn up, I wouldn't have to do this so often," he chided, clipping off a suture before continuing to the next. The needle pierced Dean's shoulder blade, forcing a grunt from the older man.

"When did you become a such a butcher?" he snapped, body tense with pain. He downed another gulp of liquor. 

Sam sighed and leaned back in his chair, sending an irritated look at the older man. "Do you want me to finish? Or do you want to bleed to death?" 

"Don't be so dramatic, I'm not going to die." 

Sam's eyes widened in astonishment. "Dramatic? Are you kidding me, do you _hear _yourself right now? You're acting like I'm performing surgery!"

"Surgery would be less painful than whatever the hell you're doing right now!" 

Sam rubbed a hand over his eyes in exasperation and grabbed a drink from his beer. "Dean," he started. A second later he thought better of it and settled with shaking his head before picking the needle back up. "You've been a hunter for twenty-four years," he muttered. "You're making more of a deal about this than when you were a snot-nosed pre-pubescent kid."

"That's because I fixed _myself_. I've got a damn healer's touch." 

"Then sew yourself up," Sam quipped. It was an empty threat; he started another suture.

Dean bit back a groan, but the flinch in his skin gave him away. Despite Sam's irritation, he could empathize with his brother. Getting stitched up was never a pleasant process, no matter how often it happened. It hadn't been his fault, either. The kappa they had been hunting had jumped them from behind and gotten in a good swipe at Dean before they'd managed to take it down.

The whiskey had taken care of the fine tremour that had wracked Dean's body, but it couldn't do anything about the tenseness, the tautness of muscle caused by pain. Sam finished the last suture and poured vodka over the wound, straight from the bottle. Dean inhaled sharply, muffled sounds of pain escaping tightly sealed lips. Sam followed the vodka with water, the cool liquid easing the heat and sharpness of his wounds. Gauze was taped professionally over the sutures and a few of the lacerations too thin to stitch up. 

"All done," Sam said, squeezing his other shoulder. He reached across the table and handed Dean a cold beer. He didn't need it, with as much whiskey as he'd downed. It was just ... tradition. The sign of a job well done, a recognition that it was time to relax. Dean raised the bottle slightly to Sam before taking a drink, shifting to take the pressure of the chair off his sore side.

"Thanks, bitch," he grunted.

Sam smiled slightly, taking a sip of his own beer. "Don't mention it, jerk." 


End file.
